


A Spy in the Shire

by Chrononautical



Series: The Mushroom Mine [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarves In Exile, Dwarves in the Shire, Gen, Language of Flowers, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: The King Under the Mountain needs information about the Flower Language of the Shire, and he needs it fast. Unfortunately, he can hardly send a raven directly to the hobbits. They'd shoo it away and put up scarecrows. What's a dwarf in love to do?Trust Nori.





	A Spy in the Shire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/gifts).



> This is for nonny_comments ( ~~apparently not a listed user~~ Found! nonny_comments is a_q!) who asked how Thorin learned the meanings of the flowers included in Bilbo's crown in my story [A Passion for Mushrooms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11846955/). It is probably not of any interest whatsoever to anyone who has not read that story.

Another day, another drink, and nothing ever changed in the Blue Mountains. Blin sank further into the bottle. It was all right for some. They had options other than mining a barren quarry, scraping, or stealing to fill their bellies. Erebor was open once again. 

Oh, she remembered Erebor. Halls filled with golden light. Dwarven voices raised in song, joyful at their work. Erebor, where gold flowed like rivers through the rock. Where _water_ flowed clean and pure in every tap and a dwarfling could have a hot bath whenever she wanted one. There had been no hunger there. No hardship either, until the dragon came. Then there had been fire, death, and pain. Blin lost both her parents that day, though she was often counted among the lucky. Her own injuries had only been cuts and bruises from falling while she fled. 

The long years that followed healed the scrapes, but never the deeper wounds. She did what she had to do to survive. Who cared for laws or the king’s decree when there was never any food to eat? But she should have. For in the darkest moments, those childhood memories of Erebor had been her only solace. Night after night she lulled herself to sleep with her recollection of those golden lights, until the very idea of the mountain became a fairy story. Now Thorin Oakenshield, the greatest king since Durin himself as far as Blin was concerned, had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. The dragon was dead and the wandering children could go home. 

Of course as with all fairy stories, only the _good_ children got to go home. Blin had compromised her honor in far too many ways to be welcome in any dwarven stronghold. Both of the sons of Fundin knew her on sight. She’d be arrested before she made it past the front gate. Still, she thought about making the journey anyway. It might be worth it, if she could see that light just one more time. 

It was all right for some. Her old friend Nori had been smart enough to go along on the quest to take back the mountain. He’d be sitting pretty now, back home with a pile of gold to boot. The bastard had always been smarter than her anyway. Not that she would have had the option of contracting with the king. The lucky scumbag had only been given an offer because his older brother Dori was the strongest dwarf in the Blue Mountains. Owed her, too, he did. Sort of. She could have ratted on him that time with the carpets, but she’d taken a full year of rock breaking in chains without so much as a whistle. 

Maybe he could put in a word. She’d be more than happy to rock break in Erebor, chains or no, if they’d let her through the front gate. 

But no. He wouldn’t remember her now. Rumor had it he got a fourteenth share of the treasure hoard of Thror for services rendered. That sort of thing made a dwarf forgetful when it came to old crimes and gutter rats. 

Blin put another penny on the bar, and the dwarf behind it gave her another bottle. Wasn't like she needed to save money for a journey. 

There was a little fluttering sound and something soft brushed against her arm. Blinking, Blin saw one of the black ravens that carried word from Erebor standing on the bar beside her drink. 

“Me?” she asked it blearily.

The raven chirped a bit, and didn't bite her when she took the scroll from its leg.

_Blin:_  
_The king needs information on something called ‘the flower language’ from a place called ‘the Shire’. As much as he can get, as fast as he can get it. Get it to me before anyone else does, and I have a job for you in Erebor. A legal one. You'll have heard about the Company Burglar. The Shire is his homeland. No violence. They're not friendly with outsiders, but I don't think the language is a guarded secret. If you don't want to try, send a no back with Gorac. Otherwise, keep him with you until you have something real._  
_-Nori_

Blin stared at the note for a long moment. Then she rose and left the bottle behind. 

Everything she owned was worth just enough to get her a pony. It was fast enough to start, but the stubborn thing wouldn't run through the night. It walked when she led it, and she traded it for a mule the next morning. Gorac could sleep on her shoulder, but the pony was useless if it wouldn't run. The mule became another pony, became a small horse, became a whole purse of silver pennies from a farmer whose own animals had been lost to disease. The animals grew too tired to continue, but she didn’t. She ran, and by dawn the sixth day she was in the village of Bree.

There were halflings in Bree, the first Blin had ever seen. They seemed to distrust Blin on sight, though. That was valuable information. It gave her something to work with. 

Bree had a market, and she had coin. She didn't risk stealing. Not when what she needed was information. One of her silver pennies went to a clean dress in the hobbit fashion. Another went to scented soap and ribbons. A third bought her room at the Prancing Pony.

A bathed dwarrowdam dressed in their own fashion was welcome enough among the hobbits in the common room of the inn. They were more than willing to talk flowers with her, once she sat down, ordered a half-pint, and made a few polite noises about the weather. Though the hobbits had a lot to say, most of it boiled down to the fact that there were plenty of regional differences between their local flower language and the flower language of the Shire. Naturally, they were of the opinion that the Bree version of the custom was far superior, but Blin didn’t judge. She needed information from the Shire, but Bree gave her a good place to start.

“Oh, some things are the same, anyway.” One of the hobbits, a self proclaimed gardening expert, said. “After all, they’re a bit uncultured over there in Hobbiton, but they are still hobbits.”

“What do you mean, Tad?” She widened her eyes, trying to look innocent and encouraging. 

“Well, I mean, they might have funny ideas about daisies and sweet william, but a red rose is a red rose wherever you go.” 

“And what does a red rose indicate, Tad, that it should be the same everywhere?” 

“Romance!” He laughed. “Don’t see how they could make it mean anything else!” 

Everyone quickly agreed that red roses were a gift of love and even Shire-folk wouldn’t dispute that fact. “Some things are just obvious.” 

“Like forget-me-nots,” a young hobbit sighed, taking a long pull of his beer. 

“Well they are not obvious to dwarves,” Blin laughed. “What do forget-me-nots mean?” 

“What, you do not even know what forget-me-nots mean?” Tad, the expert gardener, looked astounded. All of the hobbits quickly agreed that this was an amazing display of ignorance. “Even Big Folk know what forget-me-nots mean.” 

“I beg you to educate me, then,” Blin said, gritting her teeth in a hopeful smile. 

“True love,” the young fellow said, and Blin instantly recognized the signs of an unhappy lover. 

“Buck up, Underhill,” Tad said, slapping him on the back. “Mory gave Rosy forget-me-nots, but she didn’t give them back. You might still have half a hope.” 

“Have you also made a present of flowers to the hobbitess in question?” 

“Just heather and roses,” Underhill said, looking dejected. 

“And that is less valuable than forget-me-nots, even though roses also mean romance?” 

The hobbits all laughed again. Apparently her backward, dwarvish questions were the finest entertainment that the small folk of Bree had been gifted with in months. She smiled along, trying to look as vapid as possible. Eventually they took pity on her and explained that yes, one sort of flower which would fade and die was more desirable than another which would also wilt and grow worthless within a week. 

“What’s that Shire saw you like, Tad?” someone asked.

Tad cleared his throat and dutifully recited. “Tiger lilies are orange and forget-me-nots are blue, passion may fade, but love is true.” 

Everyone agreed that this was a very good saying, despite being from the Shire, though Blin had to wait until they were all much drunker before anyone would tell her what a Tiger Lily meant in their flower language. 

That night she sent Gorac back to Nori with a letter. 

_Nori,_  
_Found out some stuff from the hobbits in Bree. Will confirm when I reach the Shire, but I think it’s solid. Red roses mean romance, especially when you strip the thorns from the stems. Forget-me-nots mean true love, and they’re damn serious about it. Apparently some of them won’t even give the little things to a spouse of twenty years, not if there’s a shadow of doubt. Tiger lilies mean fucking. If two hobbits see a bee land in the cone of a tiger lily, there’s a good chance they’ll just start going at it. Seems like nothing gets a hobbitess hotter than a good old bee at the center of a tiger lily. Sources were pretty drunk when I got that one, but not too drunk to sketch the attached flowers with a clear hand. Sorry it’s all to do with courting. Wanted to get what I had to you you while I still had a chance of being among the first. If it’s enough to be worth letting me continue, have a raven meet me at The Green Dragon in a place called Hobbiton. I’ve been told that’s the cultural center of the Shire, and I should be able to pick up everything you need there._  
_Blin_

Traveling without the raven on her shoulder was nerve wracking, especially because she didn’t want to run into the Shire with her hobbit dress covered in sweat. Having the Gorac napping on the pommel of her pony’s saddle or on her own shoulder would have been no inconvenience at all. If Gorac were still with her, Blin wouldn’t need to worry about whether or not Nori would send him back. After all, if someone else had beaten her to the punch, Nori wouldn’t waste a raven’s time by sending it back to tell her so. Blin tried to put it from her mind. As far as she knew, she still had a job to do. When the raven came back, she’d have so much information for Nori that the thing wouldn’t be able to fly under the weight. 

It was all right for some, she thought, looking at the fat hobbits and their beautiful crops. The Shire was a place of plenty. Clearly no one ever went hungry, and if the hobbits weren’t eager to welcome a strange dwarf, they were kind enough when she spoke to them. Obviously they didn’t fear knives in the dark. 

Accomplishing her task was almost laughably simple once she reached Hobbiton. The barman at the Green Dragon directed her to a bookstore. There on the shelves among other tomes was a recently published volume in one hundred and fifty thin pages about the flower language of the Shire from a noted local expert. Blin stared at it for a long moment before giving a few of her precious pennies over in exchange. It was too easy. Someone else would have beaten her to the information. Someone else wouldn’t have needed to travel all the way from the Blue Mountains to acquire it, and Nori wouldn’t even bother to send a raven back to tell her so. Erebor would remain nothing but a dream for Blin. Someone like her could never go home. 

Although it was only early afternoon, she went back to the Green Dragon and fell into bed. Exhaustion finally overcame her, and she slept deeply, dreaming of golden light and dwarven music. 

Waking in the morning, she saw six ravens lining her window. Seeing that she was aware of him, Gorac hopped forward to offer her the letter on his leg. 

_Blin:_  
_Well done. Thorin could hardly believe you made it to Bree that fast. Hope you’ve managed to get some sleep while Gorac was with us. The pictures were a nice touch, though the Westron names for the flowers seem to be the same in Dale so if it’s too much trouble to get more, don’t worry about it. The name, the meaning, and the context should be enough. The king was particularly pleased by the anecdote about the bee, so if you come across anything more of that nature, don’t hesitate. That’s the sort of thing he’s looking for, if you take my meaning. I’m sure you’ve got more by now. Send as much as you can. Thanks for your help. This means a lot to the king._  
_-Nori_

Blin stared at the note. The king was courting a hobbit. That was interesting. None of her business, but interesting. She wished him luck. Getting out of bed, she found the book of flower language, and carefully started tearing out pages. Twenty five apiece was a lot for each raven to carry, but they were hobbit-sized papers, smaller and thinner than the pages of a dwarven book would be. When rolled tightly, the little bundles just fit into the message pouches on each bird’s leg. They were exactly what Nori was asking, with illustrations and cultural context given for each and every flower in the Shire. The dwarrowdam could only hope that it would be enough. When the ravens flew out the window, they carried all of her hopes off to the Lonely Mountain. 

Idleness didn’t suit her anymore than it did most dwarves. While she waited for word, she continued to gather information. Speaking at length with various flower sellers was easy enough. The real challenge lay in getting a hobbit to stop talking once he began. Despite her beard, many of the unmarried bucks seemed to find Blin comely enough and more than one offered her a tiger lily, confirming that meaning time and again. Nervous as she was, she almost accepted, but she was too much of a dwarf to accept such an ephemeral courting gift. 

It was something of a surprise to discover that she had even that much pride left. 

Proud or not, Blin was good at her job. All of the information she gathered while waiting for contact served to confirm what she’d already passed to the king in the book. There was nothing more to give. If what she’d uncovered wasn’t enough, maybe it would at least be enough for Nori to set her another task. She’d do anything for the reward he promised. She’d do anything for a chance to go home. 

After four days of waiting, Gorac returned. The message he carried was simple. 

_Blin:_  
_There’s a caravan leaving the Blue Mountains for Erebor in three weeks. Head’s name is Vorgan. If you can be back there by the time you go, he’ll bring you along as a hand and you can work off your meals, transportation, and incidentals. Should be the safest way for you to get here. One way or another, though, you’ve got a job waiting in at the Lonely Mountain if you want it. The Sons of Fundin aren’t exactly the bastards we used to think they were, and anyway Thorin’s pardoned you for most of it. Stick with me, and it’ll be nothing but service to the king from here on, anyway._  
_-Nori_

She stared at the note, barely able to read it through the blur of her tears. After all this time, she was going home. 

Maybe now that Thorin Oakenshield was King Under the Mountain, it would be all right for everyone, even those who got lost during the wandering.


End file.
